


Misremembered

by BeeKing_boi



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Depression, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, i guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-21 09:25:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11354568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeeKing_boi/pseuds/BeeKing_boi
Summary: Damien remembers his mother





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It sucks in general but please point out any glaring mistakes  
> (This version is not fully edited)
> 
> GayvinFree is my beta or beta to this or acting-beta?

Chapter One

Reflection

Mirrors display the worst in people. Their slick metallic surface always had the scent of glass and tears. They are foreboding and yet somehow possess the power to beacon even the most unwilling. Discretely hidden in full view. These portals snatch light from the air and bend it into a misshapen, misunderstood mistake. Mirrors lie, telling people they are ugly. But —this thought was always nagging— what if those metallic sheets weren’t—

“Damien, dinner is waiting!” A sharp knock punctuated the statement.

“I, I’m coming,” Damien trailed, the shadow at the door long gone. It took a Herculean effort to push himself away from the sink rather than lie down on the cool tile. He didn't feel like eating. Not when the floor sang to him in. 

“You don't have to face them,” The icy tiles whispered with one voice. Their small shimmering hands extended, groping for his ankles. “Stay here. Safe from family portraits, safe from harm…” 

Damien wanted with all his aching heart to obey and sink into the porcelain squares. Alas, he'd promised the lying monster in the mirror that he'd try. Trying meant facing his father, his uncle. Facing every framed portrait on the stairs. 

Walter made some sort of decorative attempt to trick Damien into eating. Despite all his efforts the plate only held a pale imitation of his favorite meal. It was just a square of red meat, perched neatly on some sort of mush. The garnish was only a sprout. Whatever it was meant to be, it looked complicated and somewhat washed out, a sort of shadow. Even under the lights, dimmed low as a courtesy, the meat glistened.   
“Don't be rude,” Father implored, dropping his fork with a tink.

(I'm trying), Damien thought. Even his internal voice was a whisper. Reluctantly, he picked up the fork settled nicely beside his knife. (Don’t you see me trying?)  
The fork shone cold in Damien’s hand, throwing the low light against his long slender fingers.   
“Are you sick?” Walter spoke up suddenly from his place at the end of the table. He looked all too honest with a face that spilled concern. Those familiar doe eyes seemed to crawl across the table, dancing on Damien’s alabaster face. Their grotesque feet left a red hot burning that grew. Eventually it sank, searing, into his stomach in the form of a molten knot. 

“You should lie down,” Walter commanded, or asked, maybe stated. 

“No. I’m fine,” Damien said quickly, forcing a hard smile to keep Walter in his seat.

It was already too late. Father was getting up now too, the scars in his face twisting into something undefined. 

‘Can't you see me trying?’ Damien wanted to scream, standing up to escape Walter’s grappling arms. He looked more worried now, raising his hands in a soothing motion. 

_

Damien woke up in his own bed, staring at the ceiling. He lifted his arms reaching for the sky in vain.

“You're getting so tall!” A loving voice chirped beside him. His heart dropped like lead in water. 

“Pretty soon you'll have to carry me to bed.” She sounded happy, delighted… Full of love and life. 

‘This is a dream.’ Damien thought silently, staring at the woman beside his bed. She was wearing her favorite pajamas today. Pajamas that matched his own perfectly, bringing tears to his sheepish, sleep dulled eyes. 

“Come on, your uncle made a special birthday breakfast!” His mother smiled, scooping him out of bed. She held him up to press a wet kiss hard into his cheek. 

“Gross!” Damien hissed. He found himself giggling for the first time in a long time. “You're going to give me cooties!” 

“You can't get cooties from your own mother, you goose,” she laughed the kind of laugh only she could do. 

“I’m not a goose!” He squeaked back, wriggling in her firm grip. He secretly loved the nickname. Although denying it always made her smile. 

“Alright,” she said cooly, a cop about to catch their suspect in a lie. “If you're not a goose, you must be a duck!”

“No!” 

“Hmm,” She hummed as she set him down, pretending to think.“So you're not a goose. You're not a duck. What are you?” 

“I'm a fish!” Damien covered his ears, making his best fishy-face. 

His mother covered her mouth to hide her giggling fit until she recovered enough to take his hand. Her fingers were long and slender like his, easily wrapping around his hand. 

“What do you think your uncle made?” She smiled, laughter in her voice. 

Damien almost had to look straight up to see her face. She was tall, especially compared to his ten year old self. 

“I don't know,” he said honestly, thinking about his uncle instead. Walter would move into this house in just two years, coming to support his sister. She had been sick for longer than Damien could remember. Longer than he'd been alive. Uncle Walter visited often to ask about her health, always fussing over things his nephew couldn’t understand. 

Damien found himself standing behind a thin, cold, metal door. He looked past it, looking into the sterile white room. The scene came to life before him.

Inside the lights were bright, burning his eyes and blurring his vision. He could just make out the squiggly figure of his mother in a hospital bed, bundled in several linen blankets. Lately she'd felt cold. Plagued by a chill she couldn’t shake. Her light blonde hair had started to turn a premature grey and her pale eyes dulled. Beside her Walter hid his face in his hands, his words a muffled sob. 

‘Why would Uncle Walter cry?’ He recalled thinking in a whisper. He always seemed happy. Even in the worst of situations, he found a bright side. 

“Don't be rude.” 

Damien jumped, turning to stare at his father. His scar-twisted face looked grim, but lifted into a harsh smile. “The lights are all turning off. Why don't we take a walk?” He spoke gently, as if he were trying to calm an animal.

Father rested a hand on Damien’s shoulder, leading him down the hall. Father only ever mustered physical affection when his son cried. 

For a long time Father would open his mouth to speak, but say nothing. When the words finally came, they came in a dangerous flood. Every sentence reminded him that god was cruel. That the Lord gave hope to the weak, only to rip it away taking joy with it. Damien wanted to hit him. Wanted to shred his father’s teary face. Wanted to scream, and throw things until the flood stopped. Father grabbed him hard, holding his arms down easily and stroking his back in the softest motion he could until Damien fell limp against him.That was the last time his father hugged him, and the last time his son called him “Dad”.

From then on the world felt hollow and cruel. The bright blue sky didn't feel as exciting. Damien often couldn't muster the strength to look at it anymore. Late one night he'd gone so far as to paint his window black, falling asleep in the fumes. 

Mom held on for another year, despite daunting odds. By the time she was gone, her son had already shed every tear he could. Watching her deteriorate became a waking hell. In the end she’d forgotten even his name.


	2. Dirty clothes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damien doesn't do his laundry (again)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still pretty shitty, barely edited

Chapter two

Dirty clothes

 

“Four years, and you still get sick right about this time,” Walter mused watching his Nephew pretend to sleep.

He wasn't lying. For the first year Damien couldn't remember having a moment of moderate health. The doctor offered up a thousand reasons, but the solutions were either experimental or ludicrously expensive. Just thinking about it, the late nights spent locked in his bathroom, made him feel worse.

“Helb m-up!” Suddenly he was flailing in a futile effort to escape the blanket.

“What?” Walter snickered, leaning in.

Damien tried to speak again, but yesterday’s molten knot had already become some sort of gremlin. It had razor claws and impossible strength. He was powerless to stop it, his abdomen twisting in agony. The angry monster was tearing its way through his belly and up his throat with remarkable speed.

“Move!” Damien yelled, willing his torso over the edge of the bed. Walter didn't listen, using well honed uncle-reflexes to catch him by the shoulders. He was suspended for a moment, gasping inches above Walter’s lap.

“Sor-” He tried to yell an apology but the searing gremlin was already escaping. Willing itself into a form that felt like molten lead. Burning and heavy.

Walter held him up in firm hands, keeping his face out of the steaming liquid that his lap. He couldn't stop it from dribbling down and destroying his shoes. Splatters trailed onto the floor and stained the swiveling desk chair he perched on.

Just when Damien started to think he’d never breath again, the scorching river stopped. His throat was on fire, and he couldn’t stop drooling. But it was over. Damien tried to look up. A stupid idea, he realized almost immediately. He caught only a glimpse of Walter’s nervous smile, before the dam broke and with new vigor the river returned.

‘I should lie down and drown.’ Damien thought silently, staring bleary eyed at the mess he made. Walter. Sweet, caring, wonderful uncle Walter was still holding him up. ‘I would let me drown.’ 

“I-It’s okay.” Walter was trembling. 

“...I’m sorry.” Damien was shaking.

“Can I use your shower?” Walter asked finally, dry heaving. 

“Of coarse.” Damien wanted to apologize until he laid down dead. 

He needed to wash up too, but more so because he felt dirty. Acting as a human puke-bucket deserved a shower more than ill feelings. 

“I have to clean this up,” Damien whimpered to the now empty room. It was a daunting task, especially now that his energy had left in the form of a liquid. He grudgingly started to wipe up the floor with a dirty towel, silently thanking god he didn't have a carpet. 

Walter eventually stepped out of the bathroom still sopping wet. Damien wanted to scold him for tracking water across the floor but quickly thought better of it. He was pretty sure Walter would make him eat his own teeth if he mentioned it. 

“I stole your robe,” his uncle informed, still tying the waist band. 

“Put it back when you're done,” Damien scoffed from his place on the bed. He wanted to lie down and go back to sleep. 

“Are you feeling alright?” Walter murmured gently, his voice barely above a whisper. 

“I think I'm just sick,” Damien responded hoping to seem nonchalant.

Walter didn't appear pleased, but nodded his agreement. He stayed for only a few more awkward moments in silence. When he left the suffocating weight in the air followed. 

Damien looked down at himself. He was still wearing last night's clothes, only now they were sticky with sweat. 

“I'll take a shower,” He assured the empty room. “I should wash some clothes too,” He noted. 

_

Damien found himself staring into the mirror again. He had just stepped out of the shower and stopped to stare at the goose-bumps all over his skin. The tiny pink peaks seemed to show up everywhere he had hair, even his chest. 

‘I've got chest hair,’ He smiled triumphantly. Damien studied the mirror a little further, avoiding his own eyes. He was built like a beanpole. 

‘You look just like your mother,’ Everyone said that. Hearing it felt- strange. He’d always ask himself what it meant.

‘You look like a woman,’ Damien’s inner voice said bluntly. 

That made him feel- itchy. His hand rose with a mind of its own to lightly scratch his neck. His nails were cut far too short to find satisfaction.

_

Damien stared into his closet, silently scolding himself. He should have washed his clothes last night after his shower but he'd still felt weak and dizzy. 

At the time sleeping nude seemed like a good idea. And, admittedly, it wasn't an awful idea. His usual nights consisted mostly of throwing his blanket on the floor when he grew too hot and quickly retrieving it when he grew too cold. Last night he’d stayed comfortable and attributed this solely to his nudity.

Right now Damien was wishing he’d made the effort last night. The only clothes left in his closet were those he avoided at all cost. His own poor decisions left him with a choice between a thin pastel orange t-shirt and crisp white button-up. He hadn't left himself any pants. He resolved to wear a pair from the floor.

While finally gathering his clothes Damien noticed something a little odd. He didn’t think he'd touched it yet this morning, but his phone was laying atop the pile of discarded clothes. He usually left it plugged in beside his bed until Walter called him for breakfast. Walter was usually the only person to text or call him anyway.

‘Was someone in my room?’ The very thought made his heart pound. ‘No, I must have dropped it getting dressed,’ That made sense. He’d probably grabbed it without thinking. 

Damien decided not to dwell on the subject. If he was going to feel paranoid it should be for proven reasons. Such as the fact that someone left his window wide open behind the shade.

“Son of a bitch!” He muttered, scurrying to push it shut. A light dusting of snow had already invaded his bedroom and started to melt. “Now the floor’s all wet,” Damien grumbled to no one in particular. He started to look around the room for a towel but it was a tedious task and he already wanted to sleep.

“Damien, are you up yet?” His father called behind the door. He didn't wait for an answer before walking in.

“I'm awake,” Damien responded quietly, thanking himself for getting dressed. He wanted to ask his father ‘why’ but that seemed rude. 

“I came to see if you're still feeling sick,” Father murmured absently. He seemed distracted by Damien’s array of knick-knacks. 

“I'm feeling much better,” Damien said quickly. He tried to appear indifferent as he walked to stand between his father and his possessions. 

“I didn't see you leave your room yesterday,” Father pointed out with a strange look on his face. “Did you eat anything?” 

“Of coarse,” Damien lied, “I had a granola bar stashed up here.” After bathing he'd gone back to bed. 

Father cracked a smile, “Make sure you get plenty to eat today then. When I was your age I never stopped eating,” He cackled looking on wistfully, “That's how I got so tall.”

Damien rolled his eyes, “You're only a head taller than I am.”

“Not for long, you've been growing like a weed.” Father nodded, apparently proud of himself. “Vice men have always grown tall and strong. You're just taking your time,” He was grinning now. 

“What about Walter?” Damien’s uncle was one of the only male examples of his Mother’s genes. He was a little above average but definitely not tall. 

“You don't take after him at all!” Father had a look of betrayal. “You look just like me.”

Damien failed to see the resemblance in his father's gnarled face. 

“I used to be just as fetching as you are,” Father assured. He must have noticed Damien’s disbelief. 

His face suddenly changed to that of surprise, “I almost forgot! Your uncle and I have some errands again. We won't be back until tonight.” 

Damien nodded. Suddenly sleeping couldn’t be further from his mind.


End file.
